Harry, Luis, and Franz were three buddies that always had a great deal of fun
together. Harry only spoke English and American English at that,
which he tended to speak too fast. Luis only spoke French, but
with a Parisian accent. And Franz only spoke German, albeit with
an occasional lisp.

Although the three could not understand each other's speech,
they managed to get along famously otherwise.
They would stumble down the sidewalk together, laughing and
carrying on with all the abandon of youth.

Harry had studied in the Pickle Circus as a mime. When he
needed to communicate to the others he would just communicate
using mime. This worked for mundane thoughts, like "let's buy
some ice cream," and "I'm trapped in a box."
But mime failed to communicate more complex matters.

Luis had studied at the Louvre as an artist. He was self taught,
but a competent cartoonist. To communicate he would draw pictures
in the tablet he carried everywhere. This worked for most concepts
that could be drawn like, "Let's eat fish for dinner," or "Hats
can be very funny." But his cartoons would fail to communicate
more subtle concepts.

Franz was an author in German, but managed to communicate with
the others using clumsy hand
movements and facial expressions. Because he felt
like a third wheel, Franz bought an electronic translator.

That afternoon the three stumbled down the street, laughing
at things they didn't understand, and just generally having
a good time. The paused at a stand plastered with posters.

Franz read an ad in German that seemed interesting so he
typed it into his translator which said first in English,
"Concert tonight at the old stadium. Marching music. Free."
He then played it again in French.

This captured the interest of the other two who took turns
trying the translator machine. It was wonderful. That tiny
machine opened up a whole new level of communication for them.

Harry and Luis also bought translators. Over the next couple
weeks the trio began to discuss broader concepts. They chatted
about love, pondered death and religion, and argued about politics.
As they actually talked, they discovered they had less in common
with each other than they originally believed. Harry began to think
of returning to the circus. Luis considered a career in art. Franz
began to formulate in his mind his next novel.

The three parted before the summer officially ended.

The next summer, Harry and Luis met in the south of Germany to
attend Franz's funeral. Neither had brought a translator device.
Each believed the memory of their former summer mate would
be best served by mime and art. Franz's family didn't understand,
but then, after all, that was the point.

The text message on his mobile phone only said, "In front of the
Bryson at 14:00 promptly." Al Flemming arrived early and
leaned against the light post out front. He glanced at his
watch a few nervous times and noted it was now ten past.

At last his mobile rang and he answered too quickly, "Hello."

"You're late."

"What are you talking about?" Al looked around. He tried
to spot the talker. "I've been standing in front
of the Bryson for twenty minutes now. I'm standing in plain
sight."

"Wait a second," the voice became muffled like it was talking
to another. Then, "What city are you in?"

"Dublin."

"Is this Vinny?"

"No, Al. Al Flemming. No relation to the author."

More muffled conversation, then a less confident, "Sorry.
Bye bye, now."

"That's just like me," Al muttered to himself. He pocketed his phone
and kicked the lamp post. "I think every message is from a friend."

Al looked both ways then dashed across the street. He jay-walked in
a country that did not have a term for what he did.

Helen Doboul had been alarmed all morning. She awoke to
find her husband and baby gone. The telephone would not
answer no matter who she called. The streets were deserted.

Helen broke down and wept. Then someone bumped into her.

But there was no one there.

Helen took the stroller with her and went out to search.
Ghosts --she now thought of the bumps as ghosts-- were more
present on the sidewalk. Helen made her way to the park hoping
she would be bumped less often there.

The day warmed up nicely. The park was quiet and pleasant.
Helen thought about her baby. She imagined her baby was
in the stroller. She closed her eyes and said, "I love you
Molly."

The stroller seemed to get heavier. Helen opened her eyes and
found her baby in the stroller. "Molly!" she shouted in suprise.
She lifted her child from the stroller and hugged her and rocked back and forth
with joy.

The return of her baby gave Helen an idea. She waited for a bump then closed
her eyes and wished the bump visible.

"Eek," a woman squealed next to her.

Helen explained how she found her baby to the woman. The woman tried it
and a man who bumped her suddenly was there.

Helen remembered a lesson in school. Dozens of table-tennis balls
sat on set mouse traps. The teacher tossed a table-tennis ball into
the traps and the traps exploded throwing balls everywhere. "I'm
like that first ball," she said to Molly.

Helen watched with pleasure as more and more people appeared. Her baby
gurgled approval. Helen decided to head home to find her husband. But she
needed to hurry because cars were starting to appear and the streets were
already filling with crowds.

Della Diablure was born a giant. By the time she was fifteen
she was already the tallest person in her school. At eighteen
she was seven feet tall and invited to join the basketball team.
This broke her heart because she was no good at sports.

Della dropped out of college early
and decided to travel the world. Her parents died when she was
young and left her a modest inheritance that she assumed as her
own when she turned twenty-one.

In Dublin she met a boy near her height but younger. They had
a brief affair that left her heart broken and alone in a loft
near the Quay.

At a party on the roof of a nearby old factory she met a lady fashion
photographer.

"You have great face structure," the photographer said. "And your
height makes you appear very thin."

Donna couldn't tell if she was being propositioned or not. So she
just nodded and sipped her wine.

The photographer slowly convinced her to give modeling a try. "It's
all in the eye of the camera. In the movies, a short actor is stood
on apple boxes to appear tall. In that same way, if I shoot you against
a distant background, you will appear of indeterminate size."

Donna learned to enjoy modeling and soon became a giant in the advertising
industry. This suited her of course, because of her larger than life, but
fragile, heart.

"Oh, I get it," Gail nudged her husband Al. "The closing
times must be when the sun sets.
9:30 is nice for the summer, but don't you find
4:30 for the winter just a little frightening?"

Al didn't like cold weather and hated snow. Why he ever
accepted a job in Dublin was a mystery to himself and his
wife. He had accepted on a whim.

Reading the expression on Al's face, Gail said, "I bet
you won't last a year here."

Al was down to a T-shirt and Jeans and now understood
that 28 Celsius was almost 90 Fahrenheit. "It's
still awfully warm in August. And you remember what that cab driver
said. It doesn't snow here that much."

"Look at the sign again," said Gail. "You get off work
at 6:00 at night. From December through February it will
get dark at 4:30. That means it will already have nighttime for
an hour and a half when you come home."

Al stared at the 4:30. "Hmm," he said and rubbed the back
of his neck. "You may be right. A year is beginning to sound
like a long time here."

Gail laughed. Tomorrow, she knew, was Monday, and Al's job
started.

Al took his wife's hand and together they walked home and
into an uncertain future.

Jerry Blue was stuck. He had been trying to write a new song
for weeks. But every time an idea struck him he felt his
mind grow blank. He felt dried up.

Jerry spent every morning like all mornings. He bought
a croissant and coffee on his way to the park. He made sure
to eat the croissant before the stairs because he needed
a free hand for the rail.

Jerry always sat on the same bench, under the same tree,
with the same view of the lake. He did this every day,
even if it rained or snowed.

Jerry was in a rut.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a man shoot his
picture. For some reason this struck Jerry as an odd thing
in this park. This got him thinking about photographs and
snapshots from his youth. He became aware of the light on the
trees and remembered his back yard where he grew up and the
way the sunlight struck the trees there.

Jerry's mind felt like it had been kicked into gear. No longer
idling in neutral, he remembered former pets and former lovers.
Soon the images became entwined with words. He remembered his
father's words to him the night his father died.

Jerry started to hum. He stood and decided to walk. As Jerry
left the park he began to sing softly to himself a brand new
song.

Grandma leaned back in her rocker and smiled warmly.
All her grandkids, me included, had been called
to her because she "was getting on in years," and
wanted to depart her wisdom to us.

"Today," she always began with the obvious, "I will
tell you about how I met your grandpa, my husband."

"Ah no," blurted little Charlie. "Not lovey gook."

But grandma ignored him as she had all week and
began her tale.

"Your grandpa, Will, wanted to put me in a little play
that he wrote. I was to be the damsel lost to ruffians.
He was supposed to find me with his guitar and his music
and save the day.

"Problem was that I was really stage shy. I begged him
not to make me do it, but he insisted with his wonderful
smile and a promise I would learn to love acting

"Came the afternoon of the performance and all his family
and mine and all the neighbors from around attended.

"He put me behind a curtain and told me to watch through
a peep hole. He would wave to me and say 'There's the lost
girl', when it was my time to come out.

"I looked through the peep hole and watched. I saw not only
Will and his friends, but I saw the audience too. And that
frightened me more than anything. I began to sweat, not
perspire, but to really sweat. I was shaking so much I
was sure the curtain began to move.

"Several times I thought he would call to me and I'd
have to walk out there, but each time the play took
a different turn than I'd learned and I just stayed there
and waited.

"Finally the play ended and I hadn't moved. The audience applauded,
and Will came around the curtain.

"'Betsy,' he said to me. 'Every time I turned to call you
out I saw that curtain shaking and just couldn't do it.'

"As I recall, I hugged him.

"'Betsy,' he said. 'For as long as I know you, I will never
ask you to do anything you fear.'

"It was behind the curtain, that day, that I first realized
I loved Will."

Charlie farted as if by accident.

We girls were all in tears. Anna, my sister, leaped up
and gave grandma a big hug.

Now it is years later. I remember that day and the
tale grandma told us. I remember because my
daughter has stage fright and I won't hesitate to
write her an excuse slip. Like grandpa Will, I can never
force my daughter to do anything she fears.

When Jill met Rodney she found him cute and loved that he liked to
hang out in the shade at the edge of the park and neck. In fact,
Jill found so many things of Rodney's to be cute, that
she eventually married him. She never wondered why Rodney
wanted his picture taken, there in the edge, so often
and by so many strangers standing far away.

As they aged they began to prosper. With prosperity they
began to travel. Modestly at first, to Mexico and to the
Mississippi. And in each town they visited, Rodney would
insist on a picnic in the park. He became so enthusiastic
that he bought a picnic-ready backpack and carried it with him
on all trips.

The Internet arrived and the world wide web, and Rodney set
up a web page. Jill paid no attention to what he did because
she considered herself bored with technology. She preferred
to read good literature.

They returned from their first trip to London heavy with
jet lag. Rodney awoke at two in the morning and worked on
his web page.

Jill brought him coffee much later after the sun had come up.

"I'm done," Rodney told her.

"Good. Maybe we can work on the yard later this morning."
Jill sipped her coffee and enjoyed the aroma.

This struck Jill as odd, so she looked closely at his web site
for the first time. All the photos looked the same. Only the
title below each differed. "Josephat Park, Brussels," said one.
"Golden Gate Park, San Francisco," said another.

"They all look the same," Jill said. "We are really tiny in each
shot. Really distant. Always at the edge of the park in the shade."

"But that's not the cool part," Rodney said. He scrolled the display
with his mouse. "This is the last picture we took in London."

Jill looked closely at it and frowned. "It looks the same."

Rodney smiled proudly. "It's the actual park from Blowup."

"From what?"

"From the Antonioni movie called Blowup."

"I never saw it." Jill felt a chill up her backside. She imagined
herself like the wife in the Shining who discovers her husband
writing page after page of nonsense.

"Oh, we'll rent it," Rodney said.

Rodney looked at Jill oddly, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

After that Saturday morning they never went on picnics again. Rodney
took up golf. Jill still liked to travel, but found herself traveling
more and more often with her sister, and less with Rodney.

Rodney's web site became a cult hit for a while. Then Rodney forgot
to pay for the domain and lost his web site.

One day, Rodney brought home a DVD of Blowup. He handed it to Jill
and said, "I want to write a book. A photo book."

Jill looked at the DVD then at Rodney. He had a look in his eye that
she hadn't seen in years. An excitement that made him appear cute again.

Bobby Talfey was twelve years old. All he had was his
mother and, because she was sick and couldn't work, they
were on public support. They ate well enough, but his mother
could not hold food down because of her pain pills.

Bobby liked to fish on Saturday mornings, because he was
off from school and because he hadn't made any friends yet.
They'd only lived in the city for a month since his mother
first got sick.

Bobby fished in the canal, so that he could keep an eye
on their apartment window across the road. The fishing wasn't
as good there as on the river, but he didn't like the idea
of getting too far from his mother.

Bobby felt a tug on his line and jerked the pole to set the hook.
A medium sized fish flew from the water and landed on the grass
at his feet. It was an unusual looking fish, bright blue with
lines of green running through it.

Bobby knelt down to look more closely at the fish.

"I'm a magic fish," said the fish. Its voice seemed to come
more from inside Bobby's head than from the fish itself.

"What did you say?" Bobby looked around to see if anyone was
playing a trick on him. The only other person was another boy
twenty paces away fishing and minding his own business.

"I said I'm a magic fish. I'm magic because I can give you
one wish and make that wish come true."

"Get outta here," Bobby said. He knew there had to be a catch.

The fish wiggled like it was having trouble breathing out of water.
"You can wish for anything," said the fish. "But you may not wish
to make your mother well."

Bobby could't believe what he heard. "I knew there was a trick."

"You have a choice. You can wish for anything at all. Or you
may take me home and cook me and serve me to your mother and
she will become well. You may not have it both ways. Toss me
back and make a wish, or kill me and cure your mother."

Bobby stood and looked around. The area in which they lived was
a middle class area. Bobby remembered shows from TV that displayed
the lives of the rich and famous. He remembered the big cars, and
huge houses, and sail boat, and lots of friends. Yes, lots of
friends. Bobby wondered what
it might be like to be famous, or the head of a huge corporation.
Bobby tried to picture himself the winner of one wish.

Then Bobby noticed the window across the street and he thought
about his mother. Bobby picked up the fish, de-hooked it, then
whacked its head on a rock to kill it.

For dinner, Bobby fried the blue fish and made rice. He served
a little fish to his mother.

Bobby's mother couldn't hold down much, but
managed to swallow a tiny piece of fish.

They had been selling super powers at the local Supermart that
morning. Joey had dropped fifty on fast running, figuring it
would help him snatch purses, his only source of income.

He noticed that fast thinking was very pricey at over two hundred.
But he could not imagine what good fast thinking was for a bloke
who needed an income.

Joey strolled up next to a woman who appeared to be holding her
handbag a bit loosely. With an experienced move, he knocked her
off balance and grabbed the handbag from her hand. Then he took
off running.

People on the sidewalk seemed to zip past him as he sped by, but he brushed
a few because he couldn't move side-to-side fast enough. He noticed
that everything to either side of him seemed smeared. So Joey
turned his head to look. That moment of inattention caused him
to side-swipe a tree and fall, tumbling and sliding across the ground.

Joey felt as if he hurt all over. With great care he pushed himself
to his feet and looked around. He had reached the edge of town and
was a short ways into the forest that surrounded it.

"Man, that was fast!"

Joey ignored the blood dripping from a few minor scrapes and dug
through the handbag. In the wallet he found over three hundred.

"I think I see now why a fast runner might need fast thinking."

Joey tried to lope back into town but discovered he had only two speeds.
Walking speed, or running super fast. He quickly gave up trying to lope
and caught a bus back into town.

At the Supermart Joey asked for fast thinking.

"Sorry," the clerk said. "We sold out of all super powers before
lunch."

Joey rubbed his chin. "Don't you have anything left."

"Hmmm," the clerk said. "Let me look. Aha, yes there is one
left."

"I'll take it," said Joey, with no hesitation at all.

Alas but Joey should have asked what it was. The super power,
it turned out, was the ability
to walk super fast. Poor Joey, only safe now if he never got out
of bed.

Phillip Nophace had never, ever in his life, been able
to remember what his own face looked like. At an early age
he learned to pretend he did to avoid questions. But every
time he looked in the mirror, a stranger would stare back.

Monday morning his phone rang. It was Bob, his buddy from
Oakland. "Morning Phil," Bob said.

"Morning Bob," Phil said.

"Check out the photo on bcx.news, it shows you in line
waiting to get into the Summer of Love Concert."

"Really, that's super. Can you email me the link?"

Later that afternoon Phillip checked his email and found the
link to his picture. The photo showed twenty or so people on
a hillside. And, of course, Phillip couldn't spot himself
because he didn't know what he looked like.

Phillip printed the picture and took it and a pencil with
him to the mirror in the bathroom.

One by one he compared each face in the picture to the face
in the mirror. For each that was different, he use the pencil
to X out that face. Finally he found himself part way up the
hill and circled his face.

Just then the phone rang. He dashed to answer it but left
the photo behind. It was Bob.

"Did you get the link?"

Phillip walked back to the bathroom with the phone.
"Sure did. And that was me all right, part way up the hill."

"What do you mean? You were right out front."

Phillip picked up the photo and compared the circled face to
his own. It did not match. Instead one of the X'd out faces
near the bottom matched.

Phillip was sure he couldn't be that mistaken. He turned away
from the mirror and back again. This time neither face matched,
but a face far up the hill matched.

A summer home overlooking the sea, the advertisement
had read. In sunny Ireland.

John Flags, born and raised in Key West, always felt his
real home was in Ireland. A bit of the Blarny Stone was
in his blood and he, indeed, had the gift of gab.

The flights were long, from Key West to Miami, then from Miami
to London, and finally from London to Galway. It was noon but
felt like the middle of the night. John had never traveled before
and experienced jet lag for the first time.

The taxi ride to Furbo and to his rental house took over an hour
on two lane roads where the cars drove on the wrong side. He was
allowed to sit in the front of the cab, where the driver would
normally sit in the states.

It was mid summer and warm, but the streets were wet from a rain
and more rain seemed likely that afternoon.

John was hoarse from talking all night to his neighbors on the
planes, and dehydrated from the flight. For a rare moment in
his young life, he was speechless and let the cab driver do
all the talking.

The taxi dropped John at the end of a dirt road that led toward the
sea. John carried his suitcase a quarter mile to the house.

John spent that day sitting on the covered porch, watching the sea,
and waiting for dark. He called home on his cellphone
and chatted for long intervals
with buddies and girlfriends back in Key West.

He was beginning to worry. Would the sun ever set?

A mile from the nearest neighbor, without a car, and with
a thousand dollar cellphone bill to look forward to, John
decided Ireland was not the place for him after all.

John, with a bit of the Blarney Stone in his blood,
with the gift of gab, for the second time in a single
day, was speechless.

Tina Glassom spent every weekend (when her parents allowed) and most
school days (when the tide was out) to look for treasure. She had once
found an old book in the back of their basement tucked among rotting wooden
boxes. It was hand written and spoke of a modest treasure buried in
the harbor at low tide.

She could not tell if it was real, and didn't want to appear the
fool in front of her parents or school mates. So she searched in
secret and, if asked, simply said, "I'm looking for sea shells."

For her birthday, her parents bought her a sea-shell necklace. Tina
knew they'd missed the point, but acted thrilled and wore it every
day for a week.

One cloudy Saturday morning after a full moon, the little bay was
drier than it had been in months. Tina carefully walked the line
that marked the really low tide, and poked here and there in the
sand with a stick. Near to where the old breakwater began, she poked
and heard a hollow thunk.

Tina let out a little giggle of surprise, then dropped to her knees
and dug. The box wasn't buried deep, and she freed it with ease.
It was no bigger than a tin of biscuits but weighed more. She
shook it and it rattled, but not like metal rattling.

There didn't seem to be hinges or a lock, so Tina carried the box
home to where her dad had tools.

"What do you have there?" her dad asked.

"A box I found buried in the harbor sand."

"How exciting," her dad said. "Could it be treasure?"

Tina blushed. "Maybe."

Her dad took the box into the garden shed behind the house and pried
it open with a screwdriver. He handed the box to Tina who carefully
lifted the lid.

Inside, Tina found a bundle of oil cloth. She unwrapped the oil cloth to reveal
the skeleton of a bird (perhaps a parrot) and a note inked on cloth
parchment.

"Ick, bones," Tina said. She sounded a bit disappointed.

"What does the note say?" her dad asked, genuinely curious.

Tina puzzled out the old script and read:

My sweet and beloved treasure. You were my companion
all those years since my husband and son were lost at sea.
I commend you to the sea so that your soul may mingle
with theirs.

Mrs. Brendy Fellon, 1629

Her dad fingered the bird bones. "You know," he said thoughtfully.
"We could put this together with thin, monel wire. What do you think?
Reassemble the bird and present the note as a bit of history at school?"

Tina thought about it. "Did she live here before us?"

"Long, long before."

"That's old," Tina said. Already her interest was beginning to fade.
She thought of the other treasures she'd found over the last few months.
A coke bottle from Mexico. An old watch. A strip of wood with the word
"Bomblisaboom" on it. A few glass beads and marbles. Dozens of shells.

I remember my brother peddling down the sidewalk that afternoon.
Someone took our picture and just a few months later a man
called. He wanted my brother to appear in an advertisement.

The day after my fifteenth birthday, my brother left for
the States. I never saw him again in person, only on films,
TV reruns, and in photos in magazines. Naturally I saved
all of them and have created a kind of altar to him.

He's not dead or anything like that. I sell men's hats in
a shop on stylish new James Street, in an old technology center.
He races cars in the "Indy Circuit." We each live in our
own universes and have nothing in common anymore.

Two years ago was the last time I spoke to him. He had just
become famous for winning the Indy 500 in an all electric
car. He had an accent that reminded me of the American South.
I, of course, still sound Irish through and through.
We said hi, but could think of nothing more to say, so he
only asked about our parents, then he had to hang up.

I've just saved up enough Euros to buy a camera and fly to
the States. I plan to drop in on my famous brother and to
take a picture of him. Maybe someday it will be worth money.
But nothing is worth more to me than that original picture of
us running down the sidewalk, and the promise, of course, that I will
visit him again soon. And this time, despite my Irish accent, I will
have more to say to him than just hi.

If you wish to see a country, nothing beats a trip by train.
Dora Blixen always traveled by train. So it was no surprise
when, one day out of the blue, she decided to ditch work
and travel to Galway on the other coast.

Along the way she met a nice man named Al who was from
the states and who smoked.

"I don't usually travel by train," Al told her. "Because I
find it almost impossible to go three hours without a smoke."

You shouldn't smoke, you know, its bad for you."

Dora could see that this rubbed Al the wrong way. "You non-smokers
are all the same," Al muttered. "You all think you can tell us
how to live our lives. Next thing you'll tell me is that I shouldn't
eat meat."

"Now that you mention it, you are what you eat...," Dora began.

"What?" Al's face grew red. "How dare you. How dare you
ever tell me what to do. I am not what I eat. That makes
no sense at all. That's just like saying I'm made of smoke because
I smoke. You preachy types are all the same."

Just then the train passed over a river and Dora looked out.
"Oh," she said. "Just look at that lovely view."

Al's face grew redder and redder. Then, all at once, he turned
into a cloud of smoke and the smoke slowly wafted away, sucked
into the ventilation system.

Dora shook her head. "Just like my late husband," she said
to herself. "Always angry, then one day gone in a puff of smoke."

M Trocker wrote science fiction. She never used her
first name because it seemed too staid and un-writer-like.
M liked to write on sunny afternoons while in the park.
Any park would do, provided it was sunny and warm and
provided there were dogs about to bark occasionally.

M began her short story with the words, "J Wipple
wrote mysteries. He never used his first name
because is seemed too stodgy in today's break neck
world. J liked to write in cafes after lunch. Any cafe
would do, provided it served a good strong green tea.

"J began his latest short story with the words, 'R Banes
wrote nature stories. He never used his first name
because it seemed too weak for stories about wild animals.
R liked to write at the zoo surrounded by the sounds
of wild animals. J looked up just in time to see
a tiger escape and run down the street.'

"J twirled the pen in his fingers, and tried to think
of a good mystery. The pistol in his shoulder holster
gave a weight that made him feel authentic. Out of the
corner of his eye he saw a tiger of all things enter
the park across the street. J leaped to his feet and
ran outside. Indeed it was a tiger. J pulled his pistol
not quit knowing what he would do."

M looked up. All the dogs were barking. She heard men
yelling. M turned her head and saw a tiger charging
directly at her.

A shot rang out and dirt sprayed up in front of the tiger.
It turned and ran away from M.

M smiled and re-read the paragraph. Yes, she thought, that's
a fine way to end the story.

The light through the window at his hall's end seemed
much brighter than usual
as Wayne Hobbon stepped out of his apartment.
He glanced down the hall and wondered what could be so bright
outside.

Wayne pulled his door shut with a firm yank and slid his key
into the lock. He noticed the shadow of his hand and arm
were distinct across the door.

"Now that's bright," Wayne said to himself.
He turned the key left with a firm click.

Wayne dropped the key into his jeans pocket and faced the window
thoughtfully. He tapped his foot. He blinked. His eyes began to
water because the light was so bright.

"Damn, I forgot my sunglasses," Wayne said aloud to the empty hall.

Wayne took a deep breath then walked toward the bright window.
As he drew closer he noticed that he could see nothing outside.
The window was clear, he knew, because he used it often to look outside
when waiting for a cab or a friend to drop by.

Wayne stopped a foot from the window and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

From outside, Wayne heard someone yell, "That's a cut!"

Then Wayne heard loud clunks and the light in the window faded.

A burly man in a tee shirt pulled translucent paper off the outside
of the window. The man saw Wayne standing just inside and smiled.

Wayne smiled back and gave a half-hearted wave.

Wayne stepped up to the window and looked up. The sky was blue
promising a sunny day.
Wayne muttered, "I'd better get those sunglasses after all, and
went back to his apartment.

This time when he stuck his key in the lock, there was no shadow of
his arm.
Wayne opened his apartment door and, as it swung open, the hallway
was filled with bright light from his apartment windows. Clearly
the movie lights had moved to that side of his building.

"Yep," Wayne said to his empty apartment. "A sunglasses day for sure."

There was once a rose garden, and like all rose
gardens the roses therein bloomed only after the
rains abated. It was in this rose garden that
an odd rose was discovered, a black rose that glowed a
bright red when touched.

Some thought a waggish student from the University
had sprayed that plant with a bioengineered virus.
Others thought a meteorite had struck the earth
at that very spot. And yet others were convinced
that the little people were having a good laugh
at our expense.

A fence was put up to protect the rose plant, and
cuttings were taken so that it might be propagated
in the lab. It wasn't long before the rest
of the rose garden had been trampled flat by thousands
of curious visitors.

Soon the area around the rose was paved, and a glass
canopy erected. One Pound per adult, and 0,20 per child
was charged to see the special rose.

Unfortunately, none of the cuttings produced roses
that glowed when touched. The single rose plant
surrounded daily by thousands of curious gawkers
was the only one that ever glowed.

A freak spring snow storm struck the town one evening.
The glass canopy collapsed under the weight of so
much ice and snow.

Later, after the rubble was cleared, the rescuers
found the glowing rose dead.

The death of the rose made headlines for a few days,
then it was forgotten. The rose garden was demolished
and dirt restored and roses planted again.

Although none of the new roses ever glowed, the new rose
garden proved more popular than the old. Perhaps it was
not the roses, but the presence of a small plaque in the
center that said simply, "A rose once glowed here."

It was a hot summer in Capps Campground. Jackie was
sweating plain and simple. Too hot. Jackie was thirty
that afternoon and bored so she walked to the old
bridge and looked at the names carved into it.

On a whim, she carved a heart and wrote her name at the
top. "There," she said to herself, "Now that looks hopeful."

Two years later, Steve joined a bunch of friends at
Capps Campground for a week of camping, dope and beer.
Sadly it rained for the first three day and Steve
was trapped in a too-small tent. At thirty-five,
he was too easily bored. When the sun finally
came out, Steve was more than ready to go for a walk.

Steve started across the bridge and noticed the heart
carved in it, empty but for the name Jackie. "Hmmm,"
Steve muttered to himself, "Is Jackie a man or a woman's
name?" Steve decided it was a woman's name.

On a whim, he carved his name below the woman's name
and added a plus between them. "There," he said to
himself, "Now that looks complete."

The next year was 1995. Julie was fifteen and at
Capps Campground with her parents. She walked across
the bridge and noticed a heart with "Jackie+Steve" inside
it. The names looked odd to her, a bit too high up
inside the heart.

On a whim, she carved the year into the heart just
below the names. "There," she said to herself, "Now
that makes for a complete story."

Two years later,
on a pleasant afternoon, not too hot, Steve came back
to Capps Campground on a work related outing. Just that
same morning, Jackie drove into Capps Campground with
her sister's family for a weekend of fun.

Jackie was looking at the heart when Steve walked up
beside her.

"I wonder who this Steve is," Jackie said.

"That's me," Steve said. "Are you Jackie?"

Jackie looked at Steve and smiled. "Yes, that's me."

"Did you put the date on?" Steve asked.

"No," Jackie said. "I wonder who did?"

Steve wanted to draw an arrow punching through
the heart. Jackie objected. They talked and agreed
to stay in touch. A year later they married.

In 2008, Julie worked in maintenance for the parks department.
She was given the job of repainting the bridge in Capps
Campground. She carefully scraped and repainted until
she reached the heart. She remembered putting the date
inside it. She wondered if Jackie and Steve ever met.

On a whim, Julie carefully painted around the heart.
"There," she said to herself, "One bit of graffiti
on a clean bridge is just right."

Zeek Baggs was an big man. He stood a head taller than
most men, and was built like a grizzly bear. He worked days
spreading asphalt for roads, and liked to hang out and drink with the
guys every night and tell jokes.

One night on his way home from such a evening, Zeek took a shortcut
by the Quay. Stuck on a rope, he noticed, was a plastic patio chair.
This reminded Zeek of a joke he had heard long ago, but all he
could remember was the punch line, "Patio Furniture."

The next night, Zeek asked is pals if any of them remembered
that joke.

"I kind of remember it," Al said and sipped a Guinness. "Wasn't it about a woman named
Patty, as in Patty-O Furniture?"

"No, that's not right," Ben said on his way to the loo. He rocked back and forth
as he considered his answer. "It's a Yank joke about a Texan."

Charlie muttered something.

"What'd you say?" asked Zeek.

Charlie cleared his throat and said, "I remember that joke. It had something
to do with St. Paddy's day and the snakes."

"No," Al said. "You're confusing that one with the one we told last week
about the magic rope and the man from India."

That night, as Zeek went home, he took a short cut by the Quay again. The
patio chair was still there. Zeek stared at it for a few minutes, aware
of the cool breeze off the water. "You know," he said to the chair.
"You seem to inspire many jokes, but none we can remember."

Zeek found a stick, and poked the chair. It broke free of the rope and
sank out of sight.

Landrew McAllen was eighty years old and felt himself too
feeble to ever ride a carousel horse again. He seldom got
out of the house and, when he did, he had to use a walker
to get around. This weakness in his legs irritated him no end.
The shop keepers had to listen to his complaints whenever
he purchases anything.

Around the corner from his apartment was a carousel.
He would pass it on the days he had to pick up
meat at the little shop next to the new bank.
Whenever he passed the carousel, the operator, a
wicked looking woman of in-determinant age, would call
to him.

"Come ride a horse. Come ride a horse. This carousel
is safe for young and old alike."

Landrew would just lower his head and walk slowly
past. He ignored her both going and coming back.

Landrew never went far because he was forgetful.
He feared that one day he might forget where he
lived and then might wander the streets forever
like the other crazy and lost people.

One afternoon, as he tried to pass the carousel,
two tourists began to babble at him. They were two
powerful looking men, most likely Italian.

They exchanged words with the wicked woman in their
own language. Then, to Landrew's surprise, the
two men picked him up and carried him up onto the
carousel. With unexpected gentleness, they sat
him astride a horse and gestured for him to hold
on.

Landrew was terrified. The music began to play and
the carousel began to turn. The horse rose slowly up
then settled slowly down. The music picked up tempo
and seemed to change from hymn to a march. The carousel
began to turn a little faster.

Landrew felt like the carousel was turning like a top.
Whizzing around and around faster and faster. Landrew
closed his eyes and held on tightly. Landrew began to
feel afraid.

The music played so fast that it began to sound like
a continuous scream. Landrew felt the wind blowing past
him like the wind of a hurricane. Landrew eased open
one eye and saw only a blur as the city sped past him.

Then, silence. The carousel became still.

Landrew opened his eyes as he felt the two Italian
men help him down. Standing on the floor of the carousel
and looking up, the two Italian men seemed gigantic.
The horses towered over Landrew.

The wicked woman called him, "Go home. Go home
little boy. I don't give free rides. Get the money from
your parents and pay me when you come back."

Landrew looked at his hands. They were the hands of a child.
He looked at his feet. They were the feet of a child.
Landrew ran home. But along the way, realized he didn't
any longer know where home was. Landrew stopped and sat on
a step and began to cry.